


just let me know

by tnevmucric



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Boys In Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Open to Interpretation, POV First Person, Trans Male Character, set before interrogation room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 16:15:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19213003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tnevmucric/pseuds/tnevmucric
Summary: "that's a lot of weight to carry.""i wouldn't call it weight, not when all of us are together."





	just let me know

From the moment I voiced my identity, that night, in front of the mirror with nobody watching, I realised quickly that every step from hereon was a step closer to home.

My caterpillar's been fed, chrysalis tampered with: who I have become now, my own choice of nature and heart, is beyond my own comprehension and strictly contradicts my youths mantra–but I do not want to die anymore. There was a time, in a school bathroom, with my head between my knees and an open wound bleeding, but I am now driven by force and a life I will never achieve. If I have anything, it is only a goal–and if I die, it is that which will kill me.

I hunch my shoulders barely, let the shapeless oversize of my clothes cloud me. It works, it's obvious, and I may as well be proclaiming myself loud and clear, but tonight this is what I need. How I wish to be unseen–a _blessing_ , I think it would be.

I am talking about nirvana. I fear to dream about it because dreaming sets the stage for longing who curtain calls at the sight of disappointment. I will never reach it nor will it ever touch me, and I resign in that fact.

Her face will always be the bridging gap from _things that must be forgotten_ and _necessities I must remember._ The constant reminder fits uncomfortably around my skin like double rolling jeans or pulled up sleeves; she intimidates me and her sunken cheeks are calculating. She reeks of desperation and a desire to be liked, to be special, and the disdain that colours my face pairs to the mild rosacea surrounding her mouth and chin.

I escape every room she traps me in, either envigorated or defeated by the possibility of full metamorphosis. _As if I didn't already have enough on my plate._ The importance of being truly mine, _my own_ , is like wielding a power I never knew was taken from me.

She will one day be a fleeting hot day every other summer, dispersed only by my ceiling fan–the afterthought of a childhood memory, staring at the spinning blades until I fell asleep... I won't even be able to recall her name.

The first disagreement we had was over clothing, another's suggestion which had spiralled tremendously in both of our minds. I can even recall facing ahead in the car when I'd inevitably given into her persistence years later, knees tight together and shoulders pulled down into myself: my hunching ribcage. If I could go back, I'd have woken her immediately, weeping, and begged she leave me be. Then, I had thought I could emulate the craving she tried to share.

Now I only know that her hunger would never nourish me, and that I would never ache for her.

"Hey-", a hand on my forearm startles me but doesn't move, the familiar fold of a worried smile swerving into view. "Slow down."

"Sorry." My glove overheats with sweat and creaks around the handle of my briefcase. "Lost in thought."

"No kidding", his hand slips away and he tucks it against his bag strap, the both of us falling into step again while he glances around Yongen's evening appeal. "Are you going to come in for a coffee this time or are you really just chivalrous enough to walk me home?"

"Both."

He laughs, light and even, and bumps my shoulder with his. Seeing him like this, easy and lethargic but not to the point of inactivity–it's endearing. Under the light of the streetlamps I almost wonder if I _want_ him or _want to be_ him.

He guides me into Leblanc with a light touch, off-handedly mentioning the fast asleep Morgana upstairs. If the café could be defined in any way, it would be not by the Sayuri, nor the coffee and curry with its side dish of bitter, almost _fond_ , personality. It's the glass, colour-stained or otherwise, filtering light in. It is incredibly easy to sit in one of the booths and forget where or who I am, and as I watch him fiddle with the siphon I have the encompassing feeling that tells me _yes, I would watch him every day if the world let me._

His foot bumps my briefcase when he slides into the booth and hands me the steaming coffee, fingers lingering as something like Blue Mountain permeates my senses. I become easily overwhelmed from the affection he dispenses; constant and unwavered, those close to him know he cares always. If I want him, _want to be_ him, then I know that that _want_ runs deep like envy. His knees knock mine playfully, drawing my attention back, and I trust him.

"Does it not overwhelm you?"

It seems he isn't shocked at my question, only squinting tiredly and leaning his chin in his palm, free hand loose around his own mug.

"I'm only human", he replies. "I guess that's enough of a reason to be overwhelmed, sometimes."

"I meant with the palaces, Mementos. All of the responsibility." I hesitate and forget what my own angle is, which goal I'm trying to achieve– _heart or head?_ "You're young."

"You're only a few months older than me", his grin is small and jovial. "Of course that overwhelms me, but it's not overwhelming when something needs to be done. The benefits outweigh the toll."

"That's a lot of weight to carry."

"I wouldn't call it weight, not when all of us are together."

I try to remember the last time I had _together_. _Together_ is a distant word– _let's go together, these two pieces fit together, I hope this comes together_... the thought is off-putting and I frown into my coffee: what use is together when everything despairs the thought of solidarity?

"You've been off lately", he notes and I'm almost sure we both wince at the attempt of nonchalance. "Is everything okay?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Unrelated to work", he explains, meaning _this isn't about how you're meant to kill me_ , meaning _this isn't about how you're going to betray us all_. "You seem out of it, if something's bothering you, you can talk about it."

"I know."

Another smile, a little embarrassed.

"Honestly I don't think you do."

How plainly he speaks often leaves me speechless, not of shock or awe but plain confusion–even dread. Perhaps he was sworn to truth at birth, maybe he has a little book with all the right answers to say when.

"I've recently troubled myself", I don't feel like meeting his eyes, drifting instead to the seat behind him. "The landscape I surround myself in, the _thoughts_... I get overwhelmed easily. I try not to show it."

"That's a lot of weight to carry." I smile, unhelpfully so.

"Yes, I suppose it is." I glance around the low-lit cafe. I can hear the trains running, both the nighttime quiet and chatter, birds among bees among wasps among bird-eating spiders. "I suppose I can often forget about my... well, _me_. Perks of the job, maybe. It's just the other night I had–I had the most _awful_ dream. Even now I just feel paralysed, like I'm not sure if I'm sitting here, speaking with you. If I am now, awake, the girl become the man, or if I am the girl dreaming of being a man. Somewhere, someplace."

My words drop like heavy footfall around my aching brain; I feel his sympathy without words and quickly shake my head, offering a sheepish expression.

"I'll be alright, stress in daily life is what makes sleep restless. It was only a dream, after all, made to _entertain_. Thank you for inviting me back here, it's not often a place feels so comforting."

"You're always welcome."

"The thought is nice-"

"I mean it, Goro." The line of his mouth is tight. "I'm here if you want me."

That word again, _want_. What do I want? What do I want? _His heart, my heart_ –I want to be _stolen_ , want my motor systems vanished, my consciousness wiped. Oh, to be _lifeless!_ My chest feels briefly broken, held together by the notorious constriction of durable nylon and spandex. It's silent before he reassures me–not like I needed it, but like he wanted me to hear it.

"I do mean what I said."

To that, she might have blistered red from an obnoxious blush. Perhaps, while hiding her smile behind her fingers, she'd lean over the table top in an attempt to assure contact–she's a validation junkie, _tell me I'm pretty._

Static threatens my train of thought.

"I have recently felt what feels like the final turn of where my life is leading. Alone and unafraid. Sometimes afraid", I correct quickly. "I... I want..."

He is something so wonderfully forged, so skillfully made.

"Tell me what you want", he pleads softly.

_Whatever you can give me._

Curiously, I kiss him. I can't say I've never thought about it, can't say I even knew what to do, but as I kiss him it's as if the deep, suffocating parasite inside of me lightens its hold: the deep ache in my chest nothing more than a heartbeat.

Indulgently I press us closer, an awkward mix of stretched-out necks and table-toppling reaches. His hand is firm on my neck, firm on my planted hand, and it feels the same as rushing water in my ears.

He pulls away, staring up at me with skewed glasses. On the table, our fingers tangle, and my heart doesn't stop shaking–undoubtedly burnt red from harshly boiled coffee and an over-zealous host.

"I-"

"You know I like you because you're _you_ ", he cuts in. "I wouldn't have it another way, Goro. I'm here because I want to be."

"But I'm not-"

"That doesn't matter to me unless it matters to you." He smiles, then, a little bemusedly. "Even if the most we did was have a coffee and discuss the _elusive_ Phantom Thieves, or sat and just played chess, that'd be enough for me. Anything that's enough for _you_ is enough for me."

I swear my knees almost quiver, I swear I almost collapse. To be wanted, enjoyed, _needed_ by anyone–it is both the bitter pill to swallow and the immediate relief.

"Do you mean that?" And I hate how it comes out, quiet and childlike, reminiscent of her and her brown eyes (wide, faulty windows that shatter when he leans up to kiss me again, just _once_ ).

"Yeah, Goro. I do."

A thought catches on me, stings across my mind and tangles our bond further with what can only be unwriteable, illegible scrawls of our documented words and paths.

"I want to live", I tell him.


End file.
